


The Universe Pointed at Him, and Life Was Miserable

by Aelaer



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aren't kidnappings hilarious?, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Gen, Kidnapping, Making a comedy out of an angst trope, Stephen Strange Bingo 2019, With all due apologies to Douglas Adams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-05 22:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20496056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelaer/pseuds/Aelaer
Summary: Christine laughed. "Be careful what you wish for! Interesting can mean a lot of things! When you say things like that, the universe often delivers something interesting—and usually very bad!""Good thing I don't believe in the universe's ability to deliver, then," Stephen retorted.Far beyond their perception, the universe laughed and laughed and laughed.OR: The author takes a serious situation and turns it into a comedy, Douglas Adams-style.





	1. Be Careful What You Wish For, Because the Universe Is Picking On You Today

**Author's Note:**

> I already wrote an angsty kidnapping so I tried my hand at dabbling into comedy once more.
> 
> Whole work is for the 'Free' square on my Stephen Strange bingo card. Chapter one is for 'Be Careful What You Wish For' on my Bad Things Happen bingo card.
> 
> Big thanks to nemmy for the speedy beta and for reassuring me that it does, indeed, read as a comedy.

Meet Stephen Strange. He's a neurosurgeon, and a very good one at that. Many would say he's one of the best surgeons—perhaps the _best_ surgeon—in his field (he would say best, if you asked him), and was world-renowned in the medical community for his abilities. This will be important later, but let's take a step back to several years into the past first.

As an undergrad, Stephen took a _Literature During Antiquity_ class as part of his requirement to take an upper-level elective course. He chose it because his roommate at the time was taking it and he had no better alternatives that fit into his schedule. Above all that, he figured it would be pretty easy so he could spend time concentrating on his more important classes.

(It ended up being the hardest class that semester, but that's beside the point).

One of the authors that stuck with him was Aesop and his famous fables, if only because he remembered so vividly having to cram in a paper about him when he had two significantly more important tests to study for. (Perhaps it was more memorable due to the fact that he found his first white hairs about that time in his early twenties, but again, beside the point).

In one of Aesop's fables was a famous sentiment, first attributed to him, that translates to, "We would often be sorry if our wishes were gratified". Similar statements have been repeated in various languages throughout history until it finally whittled down to the famous adage well-known by the English-speaking world today: be careful what you wish for.

Stephen Strange was not, on a normal day, one to consider adages and their meanings.

You see where this is going.

To be entirely fair to him, his week thus far had been rather dull. The cases presented to him for his consideration were not very interesting, he had no scheduled surgeries for three days (somehow), and no one had begged for him in the ER in all that time.

So when Stephen caught Christine in the halls during a shared break, he eventually ended up saying, "I wish something interesting happened today."

Christine laughed. "Be careful what you wish for! Interesting can mean a lot of things!"

He huffed, but in good humor. "You know what I mean. I'll take an interesting surgery in the ER at this point."

She rolled her eyes. "I'll keep you in mind, should anything 'interesting' turn up. But when you say things like that," she laughed again, "the universe often delivers something interesting— and usually very bad!"

"Good thing I don't believe in the universe's ability to deliver, then," he retorted to her joke with his own eye roll.

Far beyond their perception, the universe laughed and laughed and laughed.

* * *

About an hour before he was scheduled to be off, Christine found him. "Did you still want interesting?" she asked, but there was a nervous energy about her that belied the light words and immediately had him looking at the scans. Soon after, he was scrubbing in.

The surgery was done just after 1am. He was mostly satisfied, but definitely ready to get some sleep.

"Are you sleeping in your office?" Christine asked afterwards.

He shook his head. "I'll be home soon enough."

Fifteen minutes later, he really ended up regretting that decision.

See, if he had made the decision to sleep in his office, he would have been a bit sore in the morning. This means that he would have been even more short-tempered than usual in the face of incompetence, but as Stephen Strange had a reputation for being an asshole around the hospital, there ultimately would have been little of consequence. His life would have continued, same old story, with little change for years (the amount of years varying depending on which part of the multiverse this Stephen Strange existed in).

But as he decided to go to his car that late night, the winding path of the timeline took a turn and everything changed.

The parking garage underneath the hospital was all but empty of cars and almost empty of people. Unfortunately for Stephen, he was not the only person in the garage; double unfortunately for him, the others nearby were not what ordinary people would consider "nice" people.

It went down like this:

As Stephen walked towards his car, stifling his yawns, he heard someone call from behind, "Excuse me?" He turned to see a man approaching. "Are you Doctor Stephen Strange?" he asked when he was within a few feet of him.

_Really? At this time of night?_ "I am," he answered, frowning. "Look, if you're looking for a consultation, you're going to have to make an appointment with my secretary."

"I'm afraid we're past the point of consultations."

Stephen frowned even more, but before he could answer, he heard two pairs of footsteps approach from behind. He took a brief look over his shoulder to see two large, muscular men in nondescript black clothing about three feet behind him. When he looked forward again, he was staring down the barrel of a .45.

Stephen was not particularly fond of guns. He discovered that being put at gunpoint only increased his dislike of the item, though at this time he was less thinking about his general distaste for guns and more thinking along the lines of _there's a gun there's a gun there's a gun that's a gun oh God that's an actual gun_.

Adrenaline took the place of his weariness within a heartbeat. He raised both hands to his shoulders. "Take my wallet. I won't fight." Credit cards could be replaced. If they saw his watch, it was insured. Replacing the driver's license would be the most annoying part of the process.

This is at least what he told himself to stay still and calm. It may have even worked if these were your typical thieves, but you probably already knew that this was not that type of story.

The man in front of him half-smirked. "We're not after your money, doctor. We're in need of your expertise."

As he realized the significance of that declaration, two heavy hands clapped down on either shoulder from behind, forcing his arms to his sides. He tensed and clenched his hands into fists, but there was a gun pointed at his head and he did not have the ability to fight what appeared to be three trained and armed thugs.

Stephen did not resist as he was herded into the shadows of the garage, and within a minute they came to the back of a white and windowless utility van. No kidnapping was complete without a white utility van, after all.

(Some may argue that nondescript black vehicles with tinted windows were just as effective, but they're wrong. True professionals, whether they be electricians or hitmen, always used white utility vans—or at least did during this period in time. That changed in this universe a few years later when the majority of Ford Transits and Mercedes Sprinters obtained windows on their back doors, thus completely ruining their aesthetic. This caused a large shift in the American criminal community, and in the field of professional kidnappings the nondescript black vehicles with tinted windows made a victorious comeback after decades of silence.)

His pockets were emptied and they took his wallet, phone, and keys before opening the back doors. The prodding of the gun barrel against his back encouraged him to step into the van. Before he could do more, one man held his shoulders to keep him in place as another yanked his arms back to secure them with zip ties. "Don't cut off the circulation," the first one warned as he was secured.

Stephen was tugged into a jump seat and strapped in before a black bag was pulled over his head. He swallowed heavily. A voice that sounded very much like Christine's echoed through his mind. _They want you alive and unhurt, Stephen. Just do as they say and for God's sake, don't be a smartass._

Don't be a smartass. Right.

In most scenarios, it was rather easy to forget the "don't be a smartass" rule. He didn't necessarily set out to antagonize people, he just found a lot of them rather, well, _dumb_. And he wasn't exactly a flying example of patience even on a good day.

Thus came the sarcasm and smartassery. It made him a lot of—not enemies, exactly, but certainly not friends. Friends weren't entirely necessary in Stephen's world, though. Maybe it was this thinking that made him the universe's target in the first place. The universe, after all, loved finding the real arrogant intellects of the world and knocking them down a peg or two.

Unknown to Stephen, in the front cab the man with the gun was making a call letting others know that they had successfully caught a neurosurgeon. Because of this, three other very successful and qualified neurosurgeons in New England remained uninterrupted from their day job of poking at brain matter, blissfully unaware that they had just dodged the metaphorical bullet and probably lived the rest of their lives with nothing as dramatic as a kidnapping ever coming into play.

(The most dramatic thing that would ever happen to any of them was when the neurosurgeon in Boston found out her mother and father were helping out a very kind displaced prince in Africa and needed another $1,000 to help with their joint investment venture into diamond mining, and wouldn't she be a dear and lend them some money? They were investing in their future grandchildren, even though she told them 623 times that she really wasn't having kids, really.)

But back to Stephen.

Stephen, unlike the other neurosurgeons, had not dodged the metaphorical bullet. Stephen rather got hit straight in the face with it. He might even see real bullets at some point, too (but that would really be telling). At the moment, however, he was doing his very best not to think of bullets, guns, or really anything to do with a gruesome and untimely death. But despite his very best efforts, his mind kept straying back to that thought process. It turned out that when one is zip-tied and has a black bag over one's head, it's rather difficult to think of more cheerful subjects.

He wasn't sure how long they drove or where they had gone, but eventually they came to city streets once more and went through them for a few minutes before coming to a stop.

(He may have found it interesting that he had just been driven an hour and forty-seven minutes from midtown Manhattan to the outskirts of Philadelphia. He may have found it interesting that he was only a couple miles away from the hospital he was born in. But he didn't know all this, so we'll never know just what he would have thought of it.)

He heard the back doors of the van open. Two pairs of hands grabbed him and half-dragged, half-carried him out and into a standing position. He was led blindly away from the car and through some sort of parking structure (he thought) and then definitely inside somewhere. He heard the telltale shift of elevator doors just before he was led into it.

A few seconds and who-knows-how-many-floors later (it was two, but Stephen had no way of knowing that), the elevator stopped and he was led down a hall. They stopped him, he heard a door open, and he was herded inside somewhere else.

The entire situation was madly disorienting, and he would have been annoyed if he wasn't completely terrified for his life.

A male voice in front of him said, "Release him."

The zip tie was cut and the sack removed from his head. Stephen blinked in the sudden light as he took in his surroundings. He was in a windowless room that looked like it had been taken directly out of the stereotypical crime drama. There was no mirrored, two-way wall, but there was the bright lighting, metal table and chairs, and a guy in a suit currently staring at him in an assessing manner.

Said suit-man indicated to the chair nearest him. "Have a seat, Doctor Strange." Stephen, having normal self-preservation instincts at this time in his life, did. Suit-man took the seat across from him. (He needed a better name than suit-man. Criminal mastermind? Government agent? His more begrudging coworkers were more than happy to point out a few months ago that he "was on that government kill list" leaked out, occasionally adding "probably for being such a major asshole". Maybe the government thought the same. That would be a bummer.)

Suit-man was talking again. "I'm pleased we were able to contact you. It is said you are one of the best neurosurgeons in the country."

There were many, many things Stephen could have replied with. A part of him wanted to enlighten the man on the very different definitions of 'contact' and 'kidnap'. He could have also corrected him and said "the best", rather than this "one of" verbiage. And another small part of him that he was doing his best to disown wanted to cry and beg to be let go.

He opted for none of these options and let the Christine-sounding _keep your damn mouth shut_ thought rule his mind. So Stephen said nothing.

It seemed he chose the right option, for suit-man just continued talking. "Someone in our organisation received a head injury last week. He needs surgery." He slid over a folder and, despite himself, Stephen pulled it closer and opened it.

_No patient name, just a case number. Fractured skull from blunt force trauma; the HRCT made that obvious. MRI showed multiple leakage sites in one general area—also obvious. Endoscopic examination revealed that the leaking fistula sites were not all visible. Despite the damage, conservative management was undertaken. Leakage had remained steady and the risk of meningitis is too great a concern now. Bifrontal craniotomy recommended._

(For those who don't speak neurosurgeon, whoever had their head bashed in already had proper treatment, with the proper scans and proper steps taken. Stephen, of course, noticed this.)

"It seems you have a neurosurgeon on hand," Stephen said after reviewing all of the contents. "Why am I needed?"

"Broken wrist," was the succinct reply. "From what I understand, waiting is no longer an option here for the best results. And you were recommended."

Of all the neurosurgeons to recognize his talents, it had to be one who worked with shady… somebodies. He wasn't sure which side of the law they were on quite yet. Could shady government agencies just steal neurosurgeons from parking garages?

The self-preservation part of his brain that spoke with Christine's voice was completely caught off guard as he pursued this government-or-organized-crime line of thought. "You really could have come to my office tomorrow. A few more hours wouldn't hurt at this point." Statistically speaking, anyway.

Suit-man offered a smile. "Our current position leaves such an undertaking difficult at this time." Stephen leaned further towards criminal organization with that answer. Something perhaps showed on his face, for Suit-man continued, "I assure you, doctor, that you will be paid handsomely for your time."

Payment was absolutely the least of his worries and he almost found it laughable that it was even mentioned at all. That they even _thought_ it would be the deciding factor at this point in his career was insulting. The self-preservation voice took a backseat as his ego stepped up to the plate.

He sat back in the uncomfortable metal chair. "I'm used to choosing my own patients. I don't take orders very well."

Suit-man raised his brows. "You have nerve, doctor; I'll give you that."

That both his ex and a (likely) criminal said this to him was either a bad sign or a remarkable accomplishment. He wasn't sure which yet.

Stephen looked back at the case file. Bifrontal craniotomies were decidedly more interesting than simpler, less invasive surgeries, but this whole situation left a bad taste in his mouth. This was wholly understandable, as most relationships that began with a kidnapping tended to end rather badly.

While Christine's voice was starting to shout at him to simply agree and get it over with, Suit-man's complacent response to his last statement emboldened him. He looked back up at the man.

"And should I refuse?" Stephen asked.

The man gave him a mock-concerned look. "A neurosurgeon who doesn't perform neurosurgery hardly needs all the tools of the trade then, does he? His eyes or his hands would be a lot less valuable."

He swallowed. Point made. His emboldened ego slunk back away and self-preservation made a large comeback.

"When do we begin?"

* * *

Before the surgery, Suit-man wanted Stephen well-rested, so it would not take place until the coming afternoon. He managed to get a glimpse of his watch and saw it was just a quarter after three in the morning as he was hauled to his feet by the two silent men.

A couple minutes later he was deposited into a room with a bed, desk, chair, sink, and toilet. It was thankfully clean, but it was nowhere near anything resembling private. They didn't even try to hide the camera in the corner of the room above the door.

(He needn't have worried about the camera; the man in the monitor room was currently playing his highest-scoring game ever of Candy Crush Saga and stopped paying attention to the feeds a couple hours ago. He'd eventually regret his addiction to the game, but it didn't stop him from forming the same obsession with Clash of Clans a couple years later.)

With little else to do but attempt to rest, Stephen laid himself down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. While he had gotten very good at falling asleep in random places in both med school and during his residency, the skill had faded in the last few years. On top of that, he never before had any opportunities to practice falling asleep after being kidnapped. This was definitely a new experience.

It was a skill that would have been handy at the moment, because while he was absolutely exhausted, no one had told his adrenal glands to stop working in overdrive. Telling them mentally to stop had about the same effect (that is, being completely ineffective; it was annoying).

He didn't remember the last time he had insomnia (which was probably another reason the universe targeted him, because everyone gets insomnia every now and then and no one should be that lucky). He did remember a few techniques he'd heard about lulling the brain to sleep, such as reciting songs.

And did he know songs. His head was very, very good at songs. He once went to a music trivia night at a local bar and was begged not to come back because the rest of the clientele were rather upset at their complete lack of chance in winning. A couple of them were so upset that they even accused him of cheating, but a rather heated argument, a check of his phone (it was off) and a look into his ears for some sort of invisible headset led to a few very disappointed people and the club offering an extra fifty dollar voucher on top of his winnings. Overall, it really was a great night.

This particular night, though, his memory did him no good at all.

_Look_, he told his brain, _we've been laying here reciting music for almost an hour. They're going to have me perform the surgery whether I like it or not. A well-rested body will make this whole ordeal a lot easier._

Trying to argue his body to sleep didn't exactly work, but before the next hour ticked by, his brain eventually remembered what it was supposed to do in a bed and he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Professor Popenhagen, the professor who made my mandatory upper elective class of World Drama and Literature the most difficult class I ever took in uni. She made me really, really work for that A. And I, like the rest of the class, thought it would be a breeze when we selected it. We were all liberal arts students after all :P
> 
> Google was useless in telling me if hospital garages in NYC have security guards or not. If they do, assume the guard bribed or dead :P


	2. The Universe Eventually Got Bored With the Reluctant Caregiver and Wandered Elsewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This second chapter fulfills my 'Bad Things Happen Bingo' square of 'Reluctant Caretaker'. Which, surprise! Stephen's not that happy.
> 
> (And now I just need to think of something for 'Hostage for MacGuffin' for a bingo oooh).

His internal clock, well used to an alarm from his phone to chime him awake, was incredibly startled by the sound of a heavy door stirring him from sleep. Stephen had half a second of confusion blinding him to his surroundings before the pleasure of rest was replaced by cold, hard reality slamming back to the forefront of his mind, like a really painful brain freeze after a lick of ice cream. Only this ice cream wasn't actually that good, because the mattress wasn't very comfortable and he'd honestly had better periods of rest in his office.

All in all, it was a rather lousy way to wake up.

It turned out that the door banging open was caused by some guy (he didn't think it was any of the men from last night) bringing in a tray bearing a bottle of water, a dented apple, and a very sad, drooping sandwich. He set the tray on the metal table and left without a word.

Breakfast, then. Or lunch. Stephen glanced at his watch and was rather surprised to see that he had gotten a full seven hours of sleep. They weren't kidding when they said they wanted him rested.

Unfortunately they cared less about hygienic matters, because his cell-like room (_room-like cell?_) had a sink, hand soap, and a thin, poor excuse of a hand towel, and that was about it. So with something of a sigh of resignation, the surgeon washed up in the sink and quietly wished for a razor and some deodorant.

(Being kidnapped is truly a terrible experience in itself, but it really was the small things like missing razors and deodorant that made the whole experience all the more bothersome. And Stephen was a man with daily hygiene routines that this whole situation interrupted like a swarm of wasps interrupt a picnic.)

After cleaning up to the best of his abilities, he ate (he wasn't particularly hungry, but it was something to do) and then sat and waited. It was a shame he wasn't allowed his phone or a deck of cards or something because, despite his ever-simmering level of apprehension, Stephen ended up finding himself rather bored.

Boredom is not exactly something a person expects in a kidnapping, but consider: after the postulating and grandiose gestures from the kidnapper, the abductee is generally left alone until they're needed for whatever they're needed for. Even if the poor soul is tortured for some reason, there's a whole lot of waiting around in between the goings-on. And as Stephen was perfectly healthy, he didn't even have injuries to worry about.

And thus, boredom.

They did eventually get him in the early afternoon, though. And from there, the next few hours Stephen could only describe as surreal.

Two guys in suits fetched him from his room-cell (_cell-room?_) and led him to a conference room where he met "the surgical team" as well as the neurosurgeon with a broken wrist.

"Doctor Strange," she greeted with a smile. "I'm glad you've made it. It's a pleasure to meet you; I'm a big fan of your work."

He wasn't entirely sure what to say to this. Was she unaware of his circumstances? Or was she in the know and just… ignoring the fact that he had been kidnapped to be here?

Then she sat down and he sat down, and she went straight into discussion about the surgery with no mention of her own name. It could have been an innocent slip of the mind, but she also ignored the two guards who took a spot at either side of the door.

_So either she knows exactly what's going on_, he thought, _or she's a complete idiot._ He was pretty sure it was the former, but he wouldn't completely rule out the latter; Stephen Strange had met a surprising amount of idiots with PhDs.

Christine's "stay alive" voice and his overall lack of desire to continue the conversation for any longer than it needed to be were both elements that kept him from addressing this rather large elephant in the room. Instead he asked the pertinent questions regarding the patient and the treatment taken thus far, as well as queries into the skillsets of the doctors that would work alongside him.

Eventually, he ran out of questions (that he thought he could ask without potentially long awkward pauses, at least) and the doctor with the broken wrist stood. "Well," she said, "if that is all, I'll have the patient prepped for surgery while you scrub in. It's been a pleasure, Doctor Strange."

"Right," Stephen replied, because it was better than all the alternative retorts he had floating in his head.

He was separated from the rest of his surgical team and led to a small room that looked similar to a typical patient room, only it had two doors. On the countertop was a pair of scrubs and shoes. "Change here," one of the men said, "and leave your things on the counter. Once you're done, go through that door." He nodded to the far door, then shut the primary door behind him, leaving Stephen alone.

He sighed. _Well, at least I know what I'm doing_, he thought wryly.

As he started changing, he heard the low murmur of conversation right outside the door, likely from the two men who brought him there. Stephen toed off his shoes and crept towards the door with what stealth he was capable of. He placed his ear against the door.

The sound was muffled and much of the conversation was difficult to comprehend, but he was able to make out 'his brother needs surgery now' as well as a couple names he placed in the back of his mind.

Stephen stepped away from the door after a moment of listening, finished getting dressed, and walked through the other door to finish prepping for surgery.

In terms of doing the actual bifrontal craniotomy, it was more or less like all other bifrontal craniotomies he had performed. Part of the skull was removed, he went in and performed the necessary repairs, and the patient was closed back up. Even though he was able to enter the "zone" he always fell into while working in the OR, Stephen still felt off-centered. For one thing, he didn't have his usual music. For another, his familiarity with the team working alongside him was significantly lesser than he was used to.

And there was the whole kidnapping aspect, too. To be frank, that was probably the majority of the off-centered feeling. Being kidnapped does that to people.

Still, he performed his job and performed it well. The surgery took a little over four hours total and the patient did not die in this time, thus ensuring the continuation of both Stephen's life and his perfect record.

After he finished washing up, the guards were back. Stephen resigned himself to being led down the hall, but instead of going back to his cell-of-a-room (_room-of-a-cell?_) or even to get back his clothes, he was led to a larger patient room, big enough to hold a queen-sized bed and chairs on either side of it with plenty of walking space in between the furniture.

But Stephen didn't notice all this immediately, because he was concentrating on the fact that the bed was filled with his craniotomy patient and _this was wrong_.

"Why did you bring me here?" Stephen asked, eyeing the unconscious man with a frown.

One guard answered, "You need to monitor him."

Stephen shook his head. "My part is done," he said back. Christine's 'don't be an idiot!' voice was completely drowned out by his irritation combined with his ego. "I don't do post-op. That's for the nurses."

The man stood his ground. "Your employer wants you here to monitor him until he's recovered."

His brows shot up. "Recovered? Is that a joke? Do you have any idea how long it takes to fully recover from a bifrontal craniotomy?"

"No," he answered. "And I don't care. Go do your job, doctor."

Stephen fumed, taking a step forward. "As I already said, I did my job. I'm the head surgeon. The surgeon does _not_ do post-op."

The second one, silent until now, drew his gun, cocked it, and pointed it at Stephen's head. "I'm sick of your bitching. Go do your fucking job."

While this particular fellow was excellent at intimidating those who needed it, his listening skills were not exactly up to par. As Stephen said, he really _had_ done his part of the surgery. He couldn't even remember the last time he saw a patient in post-op; he really wasn't one for nursing. A gun, however, was a great way to make someone comply, so long as the individual using it has no particular scruples to speak of. This guy looked like he very much didn't.

Stephen raised his hands and stepped back quickly. "Alright, alright, I'll see to his post-op," he said. "I just need the anesthesiologist to take him off the anaesthetics and whoever has been handling his medication to see to that. I don't know his allergies." (He actually did see them in his file and had them memorized, but the less things he touched during his patient's recovery, the less likely he would be blamed if something went wrong.)

Thankfully they didn't argue against his requests. The gun left his head and Stephen slowly lowered his hands back to his sides. "The other doctors will be here soon," the first man said, and both of them left the room.

Stephen took a slow, deep breath once they were gone.

Monitor. What did they mean by _monitor_? Did they mean just the first couple hours after the anesthetic wore off? Did they mean the first twenty-four hours? Surely they couldn't mean until the man was fully recovered; this sort of surgery took _weeks_ to heal from. How long did they plan to keep him captive?

He pressed his lips together; no matter what they decided, he had little choice in the matter. For now he was stuck in his role as the reluctant caretaker.

* * *

Several hours later and Stephen was still in his patient's room.

He and the other doctors had gone through the motions of post-op: they weaned off the anaesthetics, adjusted the patient's pain medication, and went through the repetitive motions of asking the patient to move body parts and answer simple questions. (Before he began asking the questions, he was given a short list of questions he was permitted to ask. This wasn't entirely unexpected but just further served to annoy him.)

Stephen was left to the job that he hadn't performed in nearly a decade, but having the patient move small body parts and answer simple questions wasn't exactly rocket science. Or brain surgery.

He hated it.

His patient began to nod off to sleep again (with the help of the narcotics he had been given entirely too much of, but Stephen wasn't going to nag about opioid addiction at his kidnapper's medical team). In the meantime, the anesthesiologist was kind enough to come back, bearing an apple and a bottle of water. It was honestly a bit weird considering he worked in compliance with his kidnappers, but Stephen's stomach was grateful for it anyway.

Even if he did hear the anesthesiologist lock him in the room. _Asshole._

Stephen had just finished his apple and was currently nursing his bottle of water. There was absolutely no reading material of any sort in the room, so he busied himself glowering at his patient as he slept. This patient, a brother of someone high up in this criminal group who brought so much misery upon him.

It was at this time that he thought that the Hippocratic Oath should probably have some sort of disclaimer after the "do no harm" part that said, "Unless they're part of an organization that kidnapped you to treat them and threatened you with bodily harm if you did not comply; then maybe give them less painkillers than normal because your patient is probably a real rat bastard."

If doctors were kidnapped often enough to make the amendment viable, that would probably mean that the world had much bigger problems to deal with.

Stephen sighed. With little else to do for the time being, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, keeping an ear on his patient's vitals as he tried to take a catnap.

* * *

He awoke from his doze to the sound of chaos. There was shouting and definitely something that sounded like gunfire. _Oh God._

Reflexively he looked first at his patient; the narcotics had knocked him out cold and he wasn't stirring at all from the sounds. That was fine by him.

Stephen rushed to the corner of the room and pulled two chairs in front of him, then made himself as small as possible. Less chance of being hit by a stray bullet, he figured.

With his current streak of luck, there was actually a high probability of him being badly wounded no matter what type of cover he took. When the universe is out to get you, it will apply Murphy's Law and it will apply it liberally. That's what happens to those poor unfortunates who manage to survive a plane crash only to die in a car accident a week later.

Luckily for most people, the universe generally loses interest in its targets after a few minutes. So long as you get through the first part of bad karma, you'll be fine—that is, unless luck wants to play with you. In that case you may win the lottery or get struck by lightning on a clear day.

But Stephen Strange was actually fortunate at this point of time, because the universe had moved onto new victims and luck was currently south of the equator. So all he had to deal with was completely random chance, which unlike the first two, was actually random and unbiased.

And random chance was finally on the good doctor's side.

About fifteen minutes after he was first awoken by the shouts and shots, he heard the locked door click as someone tried to open it. Then the whole door knob, lock and all, was blown to smithereens in a rather gratuitous show of force. It did, however, accomplish the job in getting the door to open, so there was that.

The dust settled as Iron Man entered the room.

_Huh._

Stephen quickly raised his hands. "I'm here against my will," he said in a rush.

The face mask lifted, revealing Tony Stark's bemused expression. "You're that doctor from the news."

The news. That was gratifying. His ego perked up at that fact. But then again, perhaps there was more than one dark-haired doctor on the news; it might be best to clarify. "I'm Doctor Stephen Strange."

"Yeah, I know. I can only imagine the schoolyard jokes." Stephen frowned at him, but Stark continued talking before he could say anything. "Is that a civilian?" He looked towards the bed.

Stephen also looked at his patient. "I don't think so, but he just went through a bifrontal craniotomy, so he's not walking on his own anytime soon."

"Ah, okay." Distant shots rang down the hall. "Hey uh, just sit tight here, Doc; we should be done within the next twenty or so minutes. One of us will come back to fetch you." Then the face mask went down again and Tony Stark stepped back into the hall, closing the door behind him. He couldn't exactly hide the fact that there was now a hole where the doorknob used to be, though, so Stephen wasn't entirely sure just how useful the shut door was to his overall safety.

He decided to stay behind the chairs, just in case.

About five minutes later (with entirely too many gunshots within those minutes for Stephen's tastes) the door flew open, and he thought that the man standing there was possibly the alien known as Thor, who supposedly inspired the Norse myths however many years ago. It was unsettling to think too much about it, so Stephen usually avoided thinking about it (as well as the Avengers) altogether. Granted, it wasn't exactly something he could avoid thinking about now, what with now a second one in his room.

Speaking of.

"Are you friend or foe?" the blond man asked, and with that language, Stephen was now positive that he was Thor.

"Friend!" he said quickly. "I'm just a doctor. I was kidnapped by them last night."

Thor lowered his hammer and his face brightened. "Oh, yes! You are the doctor I saw on the viewing screen—on your technology, though I am afraid that I don't remember what it's called."

His brow furrowed. "Uh, TV?"

"No, not the large viewing screen. It is a smaller viewing screen that has also a mechanism upon which a person can write words by pressing buttons."

"Oh ah, a computer, or laptop maybe."

Thor smiled. "Yes, both of those sound correct. Marvelous inventions. I have been thoroughly impressed with how greatly you Midgardians have advanced over the last thousand years."

Stephen offered what he hoped came off as a polite smile. He had no idea how to answer otherwise. Luckily for him, a bullet shot just past Thor in the hallway, zooming by about an inch from his back. He stepped out, threw his hammer down the hall, then stepped back in. "What is your name, good doctor?"

"Uh, Strange. Stephen Strange."

He stepped back out into the hall, arm out, and the hammer came back into his hand a couple seconds later. The genial smile never left his face. "Ah yes, of course! Your name is very similar to a friend of mine, which is how I remembered you." A strange metallic clunk rang from somewhere outside the room down the hall, and Thor's smile turned into a grin. "Oh, there he is!" He looked down the hall and raised his free arm. "Steve! I found Stephen!"

A few seconds later, Captain America was in front of the door. He gave the hole in it a wry look. "I think Tony found him first," he told Thor, before looking over at Stephen. Not entirely sure what to do at his sudden appearance (he could still hear gunshots, for chrissake), the doctor lifted a hand up in a silent and somewhat bemused greeting.

"You look familiar," Rogers said, narrowing his eyes in thought.

"He is the doctor from the computer!" answered Thor with a grin. "The one who had a name like yours."

Realization came to his eyes and Rogers relaxed. "Right. Are you hurt, doctor? What about him? Who is he?" He gestured to the still-drugged man on the bed.

"I'm fine," Stephen answered. "I was abducted to perform brain surgery on him; I'm pretty sure he works with whoever these guys are."

"A HYDRA cell," said Rogers. "We've been clearing them out regularly throughout the year."

He vaguely recalled that bit of news regarding the clearing. That the remnants of the same organization that had put him on a kill list also had him in their control put a weird feeling in Stephen's gut.

Well, at least it explained why the Avengers were there.

After the brief pause for his rambling thoughts, he remembered himself, then nodded to Rogers and continued. "Other than recovering from the procedure, he's fine. He'll need to be monitored during his recovery."

"Of course," Rogers answered. He looked down the hall. "I believe we're almost through here. I'm not sure how much longer it'll take, but one of us will be back for you once it's safe."

Stephen did a quick calculation. "From what Stark thought, about ten or so minutes from now if he was accurate."

"Sounds about right," was Rogers' answer.

Thor, however, thought differently. "Ten minutes? It sounds like a challenge!" His enthusiasm was evident. "I shall have the rest of this place cleared out within five!" With that, he took off.

Rogers rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Stay here," he ordered, then closed the door behind him.

Again, Stephen had no particular desire to see if he had somehow developed superpowers and was now immune to bullets, and resettled in his corner behind the chairs once more.

Stephen didn't actually keep track of the minutes until he heard the last of the gunshots and had no idea if Thor managed his goal by the time someone came to collect him. So when Stark came in through the door, sans helmet, it did not come to his mind to even mention it.

(Stephen really didn't care who "won," but if Thor had told the others of this new game, with both Clint Barton's and Natasha Romanoff's enthusiastic assistance, he would have most certainly succeeded. In his battle fervour, though, he did not properly flick his communicator back on and thus failed to speak about this challenge to his associates; in the end, his solo effort only managed to shave down Tony Stark's estimate by about two minutes.

However, Thor did not keep exact time on his speed run, so he did indeed think he won and looked towards Tony to see if he was incorrect in his estimate, as he knew that Tony would have the ability to keep the exact time. As Tony did not realize there was actually a competition going on, Thor's "I believe I won" when they next crossed paths was entirely too cryptic for Tony to bother with just after wiping out a base of HYDRA agents, and so he left that comment with a simple pat on the shoulder. In the end, Thor thought himself the winner of a competition that no one else knew was happening.)

"As you probably figured by the lack of gunshots for the last several minutes, we finished," said Stark in greeting. "Are we okay to leave him for five minutes? The paramedics are just around the corner."

Stephen glanced at his unwanted patient and his vitals. They had remained steady throughout the half hour and appeared unchanged. "Five minutes should be fine. If their medical staff have any brains, they should have some sort of beeper that would alert them to a sudden change in his vitals."

"Yeah, we rounded them up and they're with the authorities now," Stark answered. "C'mon, I'll show you the way out."

"Could we make a quick detour to get my things? They should be just down the hall in the room where I scrubbed in."

He nodded. "Sure. If they were moved for some reason, we'll find them and return them to you."

Thankfully his things weren't moved and he collected his clothing and watch. Stark raised his brows at the items.

"I'm surprised no one snatched your stuff. The watch isn't exactly a vending machine prize."

"From what I could gather, they apparently keep their medical staff rather well-paid," he answered dryly. "Lucky me."

"You _are_ lucky," Stark retorted. "HYDRA is not known for their hospitality. And our timing couldn't be better."

Stephen shrugged. "You could have taken them down _before_ they kidnapped me."

"And then you would've missed out on this exciting time! And look: you got to _meet the Avengers._"

He shot him a partially exasperated look. "I think I would have rather skipped the experience, even if that would have meant losing out on the dubious pleasure of meeting the Avengers."

Stark placed a hand on his heart. "You wound me, Doc." Stephen huffed in return, and Stark continued, "We're almost out. Is there anything you need? Food, water?"

He considered the question, and realized that, despite his freedom, his night was probably far from over—and he was already starting to feel the pull of exhaustion from the whole experience. "I think I could use some coffee."

"That can be done. I'm sure there's three Starbucks around the next corner. Though, well, we're a bit out of the way of the city—might take a couple more corners out here."

It turned out that "out here" was some sort of industrial yard that looked generally unused at this time of day (sometime in the later evening) by other people. However, the scene was currently crawling with local police, SWAT teams, and what looked to be some sort of federal agencies. FBI, maybe, in lieu of the now-defunct S.H.I.E.L.D.

"They still have my wallet, keys, and phone," he added as an afterthought. "I would appreciate getting those returned, as well."

"We'll keep an eye out for them," Stark said. Two paramedics and a couple feds began to approach them. "Let them know, too. I'll see you in a mo'." Stephen stared at Iron Man's back as he walked away to talk to someone else. Before he could wonder much about it, he was accosted by the paramedics and the officials.

It only took Stephen about five minutes to convince them that he really didn't need paramedics, and that they really should be focusing their efforts on his patient still in the building. He was able to get the actual paramedics off his back in about thirty seconds with that bit of information; it took another four minutes and thirty seconds to convince the government officials that he "absolutely did not need a checkup", and that he was "a damn doctor and would know if there was anything untoward in the food", and that it would "really negate the point to drug their brain surgeon right before he performed surgery", so could they move onto the questioning now so he "could go home sometime before the sun came out"?

They finally stopped pestering him on that point and got on to the actual questioning, which he answered as succinctly as he could while still being thorough. He explained what happened (which they seemed to already know, considering the Avengers saw it on the news), what he was brought in to do, and the items he was still missing and would really like returned, please and thank you.

Half an hour later, the Feds were finally satisfied with his answers. "We'll have someone take you home shortly. You'll be alerted within the next few days if your belongings are recovered, and you should receive them shortly thereafter." Stephen was directed to sit in an unmarked, black SUV to wait and he opted to leave the door open and allow the cacophony of sounds to surround him.

As he waited, his mind strayed to the conversation not 48 hours ago with Christine, causing him to grimace. He hoped she didn't remember that; Stephen was in no way superstitious, but if word got out that he wanted something "interesting" to happen the same day he was abducted, he was never going to live it down. It would probably go down in the annals of Metro-General History under the category of "Greatest Ironic Moments". _Ugh._

"There you are. Sorry; an open Starbucks turned out being a ton farther than I anticipated."

Stephen peeled his eyes open and saw Tony Stark with a coffee cup. He narrowed his eyes as he took it. "Did you end up getting it yourself?"

"'Course not; told the police sergeant you needed it, and he had one of the rookies get it." Stephen snorted softly, then took a sip from the cup. "You look like a black coffee type of guy. Did I get it right?"

"For today, definitely," he muttered. While it was evening, he didn't want to fall asleep in some government official's car on the way back to NYC. Furthermore, he would probably have to sort out a temporary key to his apartment upon getting to the building—and he needed to call the hospital and leave a message for the administrators, too. Goodness knew how long _that_ would take.

(It took a lot less longer than he thought it would, because generally speaking, most people don't require a person to jump through hoops after they've been kidnapped, even if the person kidnapped was regarded as a bit of a prick.)

Stark sipped on his own cup of coffee. "So, you ever work on a freelance basis?"

_What? _"What?"

He waved his arm in a wide motion, saying, "I know that you work with your hospital that works with different insurance companies, and that you may work with other different insurers, and that you might have patients referred to you by other doctors from other hospitals around the country, or the world, et cetera, et cetera. But would you be willing to take on, say, house calls?"

Stephen blinked. "What?" he repeated. Was Stark asking what he _thought_ he was asking? He knew his worth (which he considered very high, and being kidnapped for his skills certainly didn't help decrease his ego), but he also knew that Stark was a billionaire that could afford a full-time, dedicated staff of doctors easily.

"The Cap mentioned that when he came across you, that you had a cool head about yourself," Stark began. "Don't tell him, but he's right. You were as cool as a cucumber."

He made a face at the expression. "Alright, but what does that have to do with anything?"

"Do you know how many doctors and nurses completely panic at the sound of fighting? You give them someone bleeding to death and they're fine, but the moment they hear a bullet they're absolutely useless."

Stephen frowned. "You need some sort of army surgeon, if that's what you want."

Stark waved his arm again, then leaned it against the open car door. "No, you misunderstand my point. What I'm saying is that most doctors are fine with blood and missing limbs and such because they expect that. If something completely unexpected happens, though, they're just as prone to flail as the next civilian. You successfully performed brain surgery after being kidnapped and kept calm during the fight. And we need to work with doctors like that, because in _our_ line of work, some of it gets really, really weird."

He paused to take a drink, studying him. Stephen could not help but narrow his eyes instinctively, seeing the inner debate that he'd seen on thousands of faces across the years. And indeed, the next words out of Stark's mouth were, "You might even call it _strange_."

Stephen leaned back against the seat and groaned. "I'm very tempted to throw the rest of my coffee at you right now."

"That's not a very nice way to treat not only your rescuer, but your potential employer."

"Seriously considering it."

"And I bought you that coffee, too."

"It would be worth it."

Stark shot him a quick grin, then sobered. "What d'you say, Doc? Give it a thought? It wouldn't be anything full-time, of course, but we could really use a consultant who's a brain specialist, both for the knowledge and any potential surgery in the future. Pay's quite good, too."

"Pay's hardly a deciding factor," he retorted in return, but that first part admittedly piqued his interest. "Why would you need a consulting neurosurgeon's knowledge?"

He paused and pressed his lips together in thought. "What I can tell you is that sometimes we deal with things that have effects on us that are… that really aren't known to science so far. In the near future, we're going to need someone who knows brains really well. Bruce and I are good, but we're not specialists."

(Stephen had no idea what he meant, but whatever you're thinking is more than likely right. If you're one of those poor readers who came to this part of the universe by accident and are just as confused as Stephen, just think about the item that completely fucked up the Avengers both in 2012 and 2015 before it became a superhero. Yes, you read that right. No, it really doesn't make a lot of sense when you think too much about it.)

In the present time, Stephen considered his words and eventually nodded. "I'll consider it."

"Great," he replied. He fished out a business card and pen, then scribbled down a number. "Ignore the number on the card; use the one I wrote. Call me when you've decided."

"Sure," he said as he took the card, scanning it over.

"Feel free to take your time on that decision, though," Stark added. "Probably should take a vacation or something after all this; I understand it can be traumatizing." Stephen shot him a flat look, and Stark replied to it with a smirk. "I hope to hear from you soon, Doctor Strange." With that, he turned and departed, leaving the doctor with a half-full coffee cup and a card with the phone number of one of the richest and most famous men in the world.

Stephen spared it one last look, then slipped it into his pocket. He supposed it was worth considering the offer over. Might lead to some rather interesting things, to say the least. He might even get along with some of them. So long as they didn't try to make him some sort of Avenger, it could work.

He snorted at the last thought. Doctor Stephen Strange was definitely not superhero material. An absolutely absurd thought.

And in the depths of the cosmos, beyond the darkness between the stars and the space within the nothing, the universe laughed and made more plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story. Feedback and comments most welcome.


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